In Defense Of The Douchebag. Yes, Defense.

The Surprising Origins Of The Word "Douchebag"

Words come in and out of existence in a process similar to that by which species do. They evolve and mutate from other words, their survival and success dependent on, and measured by, usage. Calling someone a goldbrick, welsher or greenhorn at the turn of the last century would have earned you a punch in the nose, or worse. Today, they would rouse little more than a confused eyebrow, the linguistic analogues of the kakapo and the bumblebee bat.

The success of a word, or species, depends in large part on its ability to adapt to changes in its environment. For nearly five decades, "douchebag" rode high atop a wave of macho arrogance, used as it was to degrade women in particular. Then, at the very moment that terms like “bitch” and “slut” were coming into mainstream use, “douchebag” brazenly jumped ship, a flip-flop so insouciant it would make Aunt Jemima blush.

One can only admire the art and agility with which "douchebag" tiptoes through the gender minefield. Never directly referencing the female sex organs the way that "pussy" or "twat" do, it manages, nevertheless, to taint by a subtle whiff of association. It is an equal-opportunity insult, avoiding the allusions to race and class that have characterized so many of its ilk. Douchebags can be rich or poor, straight or gay, black, white, Samoan, or Icelandic (though Europeans do seem to be a tad over-represented). Somewhere, at this very moment, a little person is no doubt standing in front of a mirror, practicing his pickup lines and admiring his freshly waxed chest. There are douchebags playing in the NBA, running for Congress and hosting the nightly news. Anyone, regardless of who they are or where they come from, can be a douchebag.

As for the word itself, it is remarkably accommodating. Unlike "scumbag" and "motherf*cker," its more confrontational cousins, "douchebag" can be laughed off if its target takes genuine offense. That, far from being a weakness, is its greatest charm. It teases where others condemn, gently exposing those who would conceal their shortcomings behind a translucent veneer of machismo and pseudo-sophistication. It judges, but never harshly, always leaving room for the possibility of change. “Yes, you are a superficial idiot,” it seems to say, “but lose the fauxhawk and the Ed Hardy underwear, stop texting pictures of your genitals to girls you’ve just met, and one day, you too will be welcomed into the ranks of the un-douche-y.”

All of the above should make it clear why "douchebag" is not only an etymological marvel, but the ideal insult for our time. More than a mere put-down, it is a signpost, a beacon in the moral wilderness. Wherever there are self-absorbed jerks, or arseholes who think that driving an SUV will resolve their sexual uncertainty, "douchebag" will be there to set them straight. Whenever we’re tempted to hit on a friend’s little sister, or feel the urge to flex in front of a mirror and say “Check this out, bro,” "douchebag" will be there for us as well, nudging us toward a masculinity that is stronger, truer and requires a great deal less in the way of skin care products. Make no mistake, "douchebag" is here for the long haul. And we are all the better for it.